


Daedalus

by AssassinOfRome



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Keating is more than just a token mention, Let Neil be gay in peace, Multi, Neil Perry Lives, Neil's dad has a point, Self-Harm, probably out of character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 10:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7887673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssassinOfRome/pseuds/AssassinOfRome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of two fathers, and learning to listen.</p><p>Or the one where Neil is adopted and Keating is his biological father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daedalus

A tempest of horror swirled in John Keating's gut, as he took his place at Neil Perry's beside. It had been nearly a week since the Incident, and hooked up to a ventilator, Neil looked no healthier than he had during any of Keating's other visits. In fact, he seemed worse, grey and gaunt against the off-white pillows. Keating fancied he could write a sonnet about the bags under Neil's eyes; their darkness and depth previously unseen on his youthful face.

No. Now was not the time for poetry.

Neil moved slightly in his sleep, fingers twitching against the bedspread. The movement caught Keating by surprise, even as he recalled the nurse's warnings. Little movements were apparently a good sign; an indication that Neil's brain still fought on, despite the invasive presence of a shattered bullet.

One he'd put there of his own free choice. Keating wondered how long he'd been considering it - had it been a fleeting thought that had stuck in his mind? Or a constant looming idea, that haunted him as he slept, waiting for the moment when he could take no more? 

Keating didn't want to know.

Thank God it had been a misfire. Thank God only the slightest scrap of metal had broken the skin. But it was enough to require surgery, leaving Neil in his sleeping state. 

Now his prayers took on a different nature. Let him be, let him rest. He'd been through a lot, too much for someone so young. Let him rest and recover. Let him heal and learn to hope again.

*

Keating didn't know what to tell the boys. Of course, the whole school knew of Neil's hospitalisation; he was shocked that the event was not front page news in Vermont Weekly. Like anything else as significant had happened in this dull little town, in the last week, month or year.

John wondered if this moment was the most significant in his life.

The boys deserved to know. In the brief moments where he'd returned to Welton, to retrieve clothes and books, or to catch snatches of sleep, they'd clamoured around him, red-eyed and pleading. There was no news of their friend's plight, and letters they sent went unanswered. Visits were deemed by the dean to be "simply out of the question". 

Each poet had crafted a pet theory, something to help them sleep at night. Meeks and Pitts supposed it was a virus; Neil had been off his food all week, and dragged himself so morosely away from the stage that he must have been ill. Even the ever-present brightness in his eyes could be explained away by the presence of a fever. Some rest, that would fix him up, sure as sixpence. Neil deserved it; he'd worked so hard. Now it was time to rest. 

Knox assumed he had tripped in the snow. Despite his constant energy, Neil was just as clumsy as Knox, always stumbling or walking into low desks or beds. Not a winter had passed where he hadn't bashed himself about; either snowballing or sledding or just making his way to class. He'd hurt his wrist; that's why he wasn't writing. And when Neil came home, they'd all have a laugh signing his cast. 

Cameron had been more macabre, assuming it was a car accident. He'd sneered at the Perry's old motor; it looked like something from a different century. Surely it wouldn't be safe to negotiate such tight corners in a snowdrift, especially in such an outdated machine. It had to be an accident; Mr Perry was enviably methodical but even he couldn't predict the utter randomness of life. 

In contrast to Cameron's gory details, Todd hadn't said a word. He had no explanation, no theory to the absence of his friend. When he'd sought out Keating with the other boys, he'd not questioned the teacher's story; that Neil was recovering well, but would not return before the end of term. If this was a comfort to him, he'd made no indication. He stood, sombrely, and let his eyes fill with tears. The boys had bundled him away, protective of their youngest member. Keating just hoped they'd be enough. 

Only Charlie knew the truth. Once the other poets had returned to their beds, he'd crept down to Keating's quarters, wrapped in a dressing gown several sizes too big. He fought for composure, though his eyes were rimmed with red and he shook as he spoke. Keating eased him into a seat, and thrust a cup of tea into Charlie's chilled hands. 

"He's going to get better, right?" Charlie sniffed, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his chafing pyjamas. "He gets in these moods all the time, but he always snaps out of them. Sometimes it takes a while but he always bounces back."

"This has happened before?" Keating asked, hot horror spreading through him. God, he felt sick. How had no-one seen this coming? Apart from Charlie of course, but Keating always wondered if he had some form of sixth sense. Dalton knew exactly what would happen, but acted anyway. Because he could. Because he wanted to. "How often?"

"Once or twice a term?" Charlie guessed, trying to think back. "Usually something'll set him off; a bad test or a bollocking from Hager. But the proper stuff doesn't happen that much any more."

"Proper stuff?"

"He-he used to... Hurt himself. When he thought no one was looking. I caught him once, with a pencil sharpener that he'd broken in half. There was so much blood." Charlie paused, trying not to retch. Keating wanted to reach out to the boy, but he was locked away behind a professional front and a personal shock. "I patched him back up, and he made me promise not to tell. I wouldn't - he knew that - but I think he wanted to hear it out loud. I should have told someone, shouldn't I?" Fresh tears welled up, and Keating saw the fight leave him. Despite his usual bravado, Charlie was just as scared as everyone else. 

"You did what you thought was right." Keating hated himself as the words spilled from his mouth, but what else could he say? Could he condemn this heartbroken child to a lifetime of guilt for something that simply wasn't his fault? No, that would be more repulsive than the truth. 

"He's been so happy. Since you came, since the play. I've not seen him so cheerful since we were kids." Charlie laughed, looking down into his cup. "And Todd... Todd makes Neil happy." He spoke like it was fact, as nonnegotiable as the presence of the sun. Still, there was another sorrow here, deeper, older.

"You make Neil happy too." Keating offered. "I've seen you two together, thick as thieves-"

"Not that kind of happy." Charlie spat, ceramic rattling. "Never that kind. Not that I'd want to anyway." He paused, and forced a smile. "He's like a brother to me."

"You can't kid a kidder, Charlie." Keating let his voice grow soft. He too had felt the pangs of misplaced love. For a moment Charlie was silent, and then he shook his head.

"I just want what's best for Neil." His voice cracked on the last word, and he looked down at the floor.

Keating wondered how many other people in the world shared that wish.  
Not enough, that was for damn sure.  
*

When he was sure that he would not be disturbed, Keating gently turned Neil's arm to unveil his wrists, bony and bird like as they were. It was as he suspected, though it still made him wince: both arms were covered in tiny scratches. Not enough to be noticed at a distance, but many small cuts all up to the crook of his elbow. Most had faded away to silver, but the biggest and boldest stuck out near his palms. They looked recent, though not fresh enough to have come from before the play. 

It was Keating's fault. He should have seen the signs. He'd experienced enough dizzying highs, and crushing lows to recognise manic depression in another, especially in his own bloody son. Keating thanked science every day for his medication, and his therapist. Neil didn't have those luxuries. He'd sat and let his fears fester until they'd overcome him. 

He wondered what other traits Neil had inherited. Both he and the boy were left handed, though that could have been random chance. Their hair was similar, and their builds. Neil had the advantage of being taller; it had been odd to have his son speaking down to him the first time they'd met.

Had Neil ever realised the truth about his parentage? He'd studied genetics, and it wasn't a difficult leap. Two blue-eyed parents do not a brown-eyed child make, and neither Grace nor Graeme Perry shared his colouring. He certainly hadn't mentioned it, despite his remarkable perceptiveness. Maybe he'd realised, and had buried the revelation deep, for fear of hurting those he loved most. Neil was a master of secrets after all. More than anyone had ever anticipated. 

Like father, like son.

Keating thought back to his beautiful Laura, and the way her mouth would crinkle at the edges when she smiled. Her elegant hands, slim but strong, as she let the music of her cello flow through her. In moments of great passion, it was like her whole being fell away, and she allowed herself to become a vessel for her art. Only the shining of her chocolate eyes could remind her audience of who controlled the symphony.

Keating had seen that again tonight, in Neil, as he threw himself about the stage, cackling amongst foolish mortals as Puck worked his magic. His final lines had been so sobering; as the facade faded, and the terrified student begged for forgiveness. His eyes, Laura's eyes, had fixed on a point far beyond the audience. Keating, in his heart, knew what was there; had always known. Yet he could not bring himself to turn back. Behind him could only be destruction.

Instead, he focused on Neil's face, on its joys and fears, laughs and sobs. In him, Laura was alive again; the last precious gift she had given to the world. Keating remembered holding her baby for the first time, the way he mewled, in search of warmth in the folds of his jacket. Mother gone, he sought out the only parent he had left. 

Keating had nearly forgotten he was a father. He'd spent so long blotting out his old life, trying to distance himself from England, from Laura, and all that he had learned. He had wanted to take her back to America, to meet his family. Keating's grandmother had been predicting a baby boy in the family since he had met Laura. He'd dismissed it as sentimental poppycock, until Neil lay in his arms, blinking up at the world with fresh eyes. 

His baby boy. His son. 

"We're going to have so much fun, you and I." Keating whispered, giving Neil's hand a squeeze, and he felt Neil's fingers fidget in response. The words tumbled out as soon as he'd started. "We'll go to Europe, and I'll show you all of your mother's favourite places. I'll teach you all your grandmother's recipes - I can't cook, but I'm sure we can figure them out together. You'll be able to do whatever you want; I'll support you no matter what. You can talk to me about anything, about your fears, about your lives. About Todd. About Charlie. I'm sorry I wasn't here before, but I'm here now, and I can explain everything, if you'd let me. We've missed so much, but I'll make it up to you, I promise. Just let me stay Neil, let me explain, and then we'll-"

"What in God's name do you think you're doing here?" A growl ripped through the still room, as Graeme Perry entered. He looked haggard, coat damp as he hung it near the door. Next to Keating's own; two fathers in tandem, as different as night and day. "I want you gone before Grace sees. You'll only make her more upset."

"I thought you would look after him." Keating trailed his fingers along Neil's cheek. This time, the boy did not stir. He must have been dreaming, and Keating hoped they were good dreams. "I thought you'd be the best. You could protect him, and love him."

"We do. We have." Perry scowled, which seemed like a permanent state of affairs these days. He was so far removed from the carefree young man John had spent his summers with, when they were too young to know any better. At least one of them had grown up. 

"I want him back." Keating spoke simply, not wanting to over complicate the issue. "He's my son. He deserves to know his true heritage."

"Of course you want him back, now the difficult stage is over. You couldn't give less of a shit whilst he was a child, but now when he worships the ground you walk on-"

"You know I've been looking for him." Keating fought back a roar of his own. For the last half-decade, he'd been scouring the state for his little boy, all for nothing. As a consequence, Neil had lived in four different houses in as many years. "Why wouldn't you let me near him?" 

"Why would I let you?" Perry laughed, though it came out as more of a bark. "With your track record? I kept my eye on you all these years, Keating. Watched you fuck it up over and over again. With your family, with your career, with Laura-"

"Laura died." Keating spat, causing Perry to recoil. It had been a low blow, considering Graeme had been there when John and Laura got engaged. He'd even helped stump up the cash to pay for the rings. How times had changed.

"And who's fault was that?" Perry's voice was dry ice. Had he really forgotten his friend so thoroughly. Laura would be disgusted, though the whole situation would have appalled her. "Why did you drive? Why did you take that risk, when she was so vulnerable and you were so unsteady?"

"I paid for it. I'm still paying for it." Keating confessed. "And I know I haven't been the best father, but he's all I've got left. He is my son, my flesh and blood-"

"How many goals did he score in his first little league championship?" Perry's voice is laced with venom, but he stroked Neil's face tenderly, tucking an untidy lock of hair behind his ear. "What was the name of his childhood toy, and how old was he when he gave it up?" Keating wanted to speak, but any comment lodged in his throat, and no amount of swallowing would push it up or down. "Considering you're so fond of poetry, Keating, what was his first word?" There it was, the sting of pride, as Perry noted the hundreds of tiny memories that he had witnessed watching Neil grow up. "He may be your son, Keating, but he's my boy."

Keating turned to the window. Snow was drifting down again, collecting on the ground below. It muffled the sound of the busy hospital. The only noise in Keating's brain was the gentle thump of his heartbeat. 

"Does he know?" Keating asked, breath fogging against the chilled glass. He watched as Perry's reflection shook its head.

"We were going to tell him over the holidays." Perry laced his fingers with Neil's. Keating rolled his eyes, which made Perry glare sharply. "We were! His birthday's coming up; we wanted to wait until he was mature enough to deal with the knowledge."

"He's plenty mature." Keating couldn't help but defend Neil. Perry had been shitting on him, on his abilities, for all the boy's life. Someone needed to believe in him, especially since he'd lost the ability to believe in himself.

"How can he be, if he thinks something like this is a good solution?" Again, Keating found himself lost for words. "Why didn't he come to us? Why didn't he let us help?"

"We failed him. We both failed him." Keating sighed, and turned away from the window. Perry was holding Neil's hand tightly, as if frightened that the boy might drift away if he let go. Keating couldn't blame him, he felt much the same. Still, he knew it was time to leave. 

Crossing the room, he slipped on his coat, surprised at his warmth. As he wound his scarf around his throat, one hand slid into his pocket. Perry watched as Keating pulled out a slim volume of verse, and placed it on Neil's beside, amongst several other unopened gifts.

"Let him keep it." Keating ordered, though there was no heat to his words. A time for daring, and a time for caution, after all. Perry did no reach for the book, but glared at it. "I will see him again once he wakes."

"He's not ready for the truth." Perry warned, though his voice wobbled with the threat of tears. "He'll be in no fit state to be told."

"Whenever you're ready. I won't interrupt." Keating vowed, moving towards the door. He cast one final glance at his stricken son. Was it the light, or did he look a little better? Keating liked to think so. 

"It was leaf." Perry admitted, not looking up from Neil's face. "His first word. It was autumn, and we went walking in the forest. He didn't stop babbling the word the whole way home."

"Thank you." Keating felt his heart grow full, as he stepped out of the room, and was consumed by the winter of his grief. 

*

Three days later, Keating was doing his best to teach, when Mr McAllister burst into the room, panting and sweating. He pointed down the corridor, winded, then gathered his strength to speak.

"Urgent phonecall, Sir. From your boy." The Scottish man drew himself up, and sent a smile forward, bustling to the blackboard. If he was trustworthy to keep Keating's love child under wraps, he could take a poetry class. "I'll keep this horrible lot entertained until you get back."

"Read the chapter on the Romantics and then write a list of subjects that you would consider worth crafting a poem for in their style." Keating hurriedly invented, but his thoughts were already at the reception and the voice on the end of the line. He paused only for a moment, to tap a comforting rhythm into Todd's desk as he passed. Hopefully that would be enough to cheer up the silent student. The news of Neil's awakening hadn't been made public yet; Neil needed a few days of privacy.

Keating nearly fell as he flew down the stairs, but he didn't care, as he made it to the phone in record time. Nolan was holding the object, looking thoroughly unimpressed. 

"Five minutes." He growled as he handed over the receiver. "This is a school, not a public convenience."

Keating nodded, but every thought flew from his head at the sound of Neil's breathy greeting of "Captain? Is it true?"

Everything else could wait. For the first time in his life John was talking with his son, and it was the most beautiful feeling in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Everything about this fic hurts, but hopefully it had a happy enough ending.
> 
> Written whilst listening to the Les Mis and Hamilton soundtracks because dads. 
> 
> Daedalus is the father of Icarus, and I love Neil/Icarus imagery too much. 
> 
> I wanted to imply that Keating was drink driving, and had been imprisoned, explaining why he wasn't around, but didn't really have the balls to go for it.
> 
> Either way, hope you enjoyed it, and please leave a review!


End file.
